


Not Ineffable

by platonic_fuckgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, medium burn more likely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 12:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19318408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonic_fuckgirl/pseuds/platonic_fuckgirl
Summary: After the Armageddon that didn't happen, maybe it's time for two inmortal beings to afront their feelings." What I just happen to be  thinking is that our side is… not ineffable.





	1. Chapter 1

It has been a couple of weeks since the almost fulfilled Armageddon. There was something thick in the air, not palpable, slowly evaporating, the so near but not executed end of the days had left a tension that only the ones who knew about it felt.

Maybe it was the weight of the all ifs disappearing or taking a more convoluted form, new ones appearing and suddenly not having to be only quick thoughts that one is not allowed to retain, thoughts about freedom and choice. Thoughts that may now be able to be spoken up because now they were alone. For the time being. After the shock, the happiness had taken control of their lives. And yet a controlled happiness, yet restrained, yet slow spoken, that was shared by laughs and gestures that started to take place. 

Aziraphale’s fingers lasting an instant more than the strictly necessary over Crowley’s when he hands him a cup of tea, Crowley’s body standing a little closer to Aziraphale as he saunters on one of his walks through the park, while they decide where to eat tonight.

The calculated risks taking place without remarks, with fear yet inside them; after all, they had seen how they treated their counterpart and the idea of suddenly Heaven or Hell taking revenge was terrifying. That’s how they had explained it to themselves, and to each other, in a quick conversation that it would be best that, for the time being, they should spend a little more time together. There were no complains about it either.

It was also because after so many decades, countless years and even centuries, habits were hard to ignore. Being able to suddenly feel, really feel, with raw intensity and having to manage all the emotions that bursted inside them, unable to be contained inside their chests, bubbling to get free, was something definitely complicated to handle when you have been ignoring and denying it for so long and now you can actually taste them. Both Aziraphale and Crowley had decided to taste the calm and trying to not disrupt it with their Feelings.

Feelings with capital later because they were a very specific ones that meant so much that the idea of calling by their name makes them shiver. They were unspoken ones, for the time being.

 

It was late afternoon and there was no really an excuse for Aziraphale keep any longer at Crowley’s flat, specially when he had argued before that it was not necessary that Crowley drive him home and now, he had to take the bus. He knew that if he asked the demon would do it without problem, only a little bit of mocking as payment, but the Aziraphale was too stubborn.

So now they were here, Aziraphale giving a little bit of love to the poor plants, Crowley grumbling about how all his hard work was going to waste and hissing at the plants as soon Aziraphale lead to the next one. They didn’t talk about the sculpture about “Hell and Heaven wrestling”. They had, actually, started the conversation the first night of the rest of their lives, when Aziraphale decided to fluster Crowley about his  _ decorative decisions _ , who just left him alone blabbering about how the angel didn’t seem to understand art forms different than literature. It was a paused conversation, for the time being. Lately they had a lot of this ones, like how obvious it was that they were slowing down the moment of his departure (and that he didn’t have to really go, but that was not on the table. Not yet). The silence was comfortable, and by some kind of demonic miracle, the light still entered through the windows, even if the rest of London had already been consumed by the dark.

Maybe it was time to change that.

Aziraphale, trying to be casual and cool, _it couldn’t be so hard_ , _that was Crowley’s natural state, after all,_ (on his opinion, even if not for the rest of humanity), cleared his throat and peeked into Crowley’s direction, who was just leaning against the door frame, his long legs intertwined, a hand on a pocket, the other one holding the sprayer sideways, eyes closed and head tilted backwards trying to identify if the song that was now playing was from the 30’s or the 40’s. His throat went sore again. Seeing him so relaxed, with his impossible limbs not tensed up, a devilish grin on his face, the glasses gone (lately he was starting to not use them when it was only the two of them), simply enjoying himself was a magnificent view after all the chaos and suffering they had gone through. A little voice inside him just wished to be able to have one of those cordless phones that could take pictures. Now was not time to think about that. It was not his fault that Crowley could portray temptation so easily.

— You know?

As soon as he started speaking Crowley’s eyes open up, searching for him and Aziraphale felt that he had to observe very closely the leaf between his hands.

— I think that, well, you know, I know that you hate that word and that you think that I overuse it but— he was starting to ramble and without turning around he knew that Crowley was making a confused expression. Breathe in. Breathe out—. What I just happen to be  thinking is that  _ our side  _ is… not ineffable.

He just said it. Aziraphale as a celestial being didn’t need to breathe. He did it again. He was expecting Crowley to talk, but a glance confirmed him that he was freezed, a gesture midway through the air, agape, eyes open up and the snake— like pupils fixed on him. So, he wasn’t going to talk. Great. He should know by now that Crowley was not the nonchalant kind of demon he passes for. 

_ It was the ineffable or the our side bit what caused that reaction? Crowley had referred to themselves like that first. _

Aziraphale adjusts the lapels of his vest and turns around to watch him directly.

— What I mean is… We have our side. You said it. And I don’t think this is something the Almighty created. One can never know what is and what not is a design from Her but- as he speaks his hands moves freely and determination stains his voice, he is sure of this— One can not understand ineffability. But I understand why this.

He gestures the space between them, wishing it was shorter. Crowley changes his weight from leg to leg and observes him, closing his mouth and recomposing himself. Silence. He closes his eyes as he starts walking to the opposite wall where Aziraphale stands, alone, vulnerable, unable to keep talking. When he opens up his eyes again the damned glasses are back, hiding his emotions. The plants don’t dare to tremble.

— What do you mean by “thisss”, Angel?

The demon tries to masquerade any feeling but he is unable to not dulcify the petname, softness slipping from his voice. He doesn’t want to hurt his angel. It’s just that he doesn’t want to be hurt either. Because this time there is no interference from Up or Down. It’s just both of them. Alone. Even when they were alone before, they had each other somehow. Now that statement seems to tremble. And the thought is terrifying.

Crowley had kept wearing his heart on his sleeve time after time, well knowing the fear, the horror of the idea of Fall that lived inside the angel chest. If he, himself, had fallen for questioning and pure boredroom, what could happen to one that has a relationship with a demon. Because they had one. And he knew that he wasn’t the only one who cherished it. Aziraphale had let him waste time on his library, invited him to dinner and comforted him with the silence of the ones who know and care but can’t really soothe your burn when he had cried and shouted over humanity and the sense of it all. He was not going to push him on the edge of the cliff. 

But now they both had entered Heaven and Hell and had left it behind. Aziraphale had hold his hand on the bus back from Tadfield, for someone’s sake!

Now things were different. And the possibility that the being of love didn’t love him the way that he, who shouldn’t be able to love, loved him kept a lingering feeling of uneasiness and dirt that he couldn’t scrub.  Crowley’s jaw clenches as he prepares to receive the hit, a storm formed inside him.

Aziraphale’s hands fidgets with the end of the vest, stuck on the floor, unable to look on his direction, eyes stuck on the floor, suddenly the light seeming to bright and the green of the plants too vibrant. Heavy words dissolving as soon as he tries to speak them. His wings, not on this plane of existence, wanting to open up and cover himself from the outside, searching a shield from the straight line that were Crowley’s lips.

Crowley, who has demonstrated time after time how much he cares about him, who at the end would runaway with him, leaving behind earth and humanity. And Crowley loved humanity, even if he had seen his worst face, the war, the kind of pain that they inflected each other that Hell could never think of. Beings who decided time after time and questioned everything. Beings who choose. 

But now an Angel had chosen too. And he had chosen to keep talking, to walk one step towards the one he had chosen. The one he would choose time after time, for eternity.

 

The one who had spoken to him, the one who had shared food without judgment, the one who had miracled the success of Hamlet, only for him, not the Arrangement, but for him and his enjoyment. Crowley cared for him. Crowley had remembered to save his books inside the church that bombed for him, only him. He had called it a little demonic miracle but he was a demon standing on consecrated floor who couldn’t save himself, his powers almost stripped down. He had trusted his life to him and yet remembered his books. Crowley, who would never tell him all the things that he just gifted him.

— What I’m trying to say is that one can not understand the Ineffable Plan.

— Yes, you have already said that- Crowley barks and Aziraphale smiles.

— I understand why I keep coming back to you. Why I choose you and why I will do it again. I know that the feeling that I feared for so long is real, at least for me. Why I keep a blanket on my sofa at the backroom, why I was so afraid of giving you the holy water. Because I was terrified of losing you. That you… would take your life. I was afraid too of what would happen if they found out about us— the angel is no longer unable to move, he keeps walking and is now in front of Crowley, one step ahead, he could stroke his sharp cheek, take off the dark glasses and look directly at his eyes. He doesn’t. — . Yes. I was afraid of fall. But I was afraid of what would happen to you. I knew that not a strong written note.

Crowley’s head move so slightly, his charade breaking, feeling bathed on pure love and not being able to conceive how he, a supposed soulless could ache for the light that the angel detached, sneaking and warming his heart without his approval. Crowley wouldn’t act like if he didn’t have one. He had one and was Aziraphale’s property since the very beginning, as much as he had hated it, pain burning him down, wishing it to be lust, something that he was allowed to feel. But it was not when he had felt his knees weakening so many times with only one smile from the angel directed at him. He had hated it. But he was not sure. He couldn’t just assume that he was reciprocated even if he was being observed with such fondness.

 

Even behind the glasses, Aziraphale had knew Crowley time enough to sense , with only a glimpse, the troubled thoughts that were clouding his demon. 

It was not the first time Aziraphale had thought of him as  _ his _ , this was the first time that he didn’t double checked an entire analysis of why it was okay to call he that and it didn’t break any rule.

He can’t stand that he thinks so low of himself. How he could deny that he was loved. How he can’t seem to see the divine creature that he is, no, not divine, Heaven had inflicted scars that never would heal on him, Heaven didn’t deserve to be related to Crowley.

Crowley was celestial. Sidereal, from the cosmos.

It made sense, Crowley was breathtaking and gived, gives him hope even if destruction and chaos are an intrinsic part of him. Crowley, who would get drunk to soothe how much he felt, fire and blasts, sarcastic optimistic that tempted you to get lost on his darkness, and to discover his warm lights, to just go back to the cold loneliness. A shining star that flares even when is rounded by the darkness.

And Aziraphale accepted it and wouldn’t want it any other way. There was other reason for the analogy. Aziraphale had observed how sometimes Crowley would retreat into himself  when stars painted the sky, yearn and torment fighting inside him, almost not appreciable, as it was a reminder of something that he didn’t let himself dive in. Aziraphale never asked. He had stayed hours next to him, leaving him space, the tingling feeling of being witness of something intimate and sacred.

 

Aziraphale’s hand slides next to the glasses temple, not daring to take them off, as much he craves the intense gaze, the fascinating yellow eyes, so many centuries hidden away. But he is not going to press him to take down his defenses, as much as he wishes it.

— You love everything, is who you are. You are even a little bit of a hedonist, don’t you? – Crowley tries to laugh it off and that’s a big no for Aziraphale. He is admitting how he feels. He is fighting every sense that shouts him to run away, to never speak again.

— Anthony J. Crowley! I’m serious. Would you have the kindness of not making fun at the expense of my feelings?

He walks back, angry, not able to believe that Crowley is being this petty and shabby and measly. He knows that he shouldn’t enrage, that usually is he who is the petty one, that he is the one that had repressed and ignored but of course he did, he even thought that all the so-called clear courting was not more than his vivid imagination wanting his affection to be reciprocated. And now it seemed to be true. Oh, how foolish of him!

But being called by his full name restore Crowley who hurries to catch one of Aziraphale’s arms before he runs away, he may be a little dramatic and it may be very hard to assimilate what is happening, even if he this is not true, that it may be just a dream he is not going to let the angel flee away. The grasp is not hard, as it was almost afraid of the touch, Aziraphale could leave easily if he wants to. He doesn’t.

Crowley’s tongue stuck, his mind running with possibilities, so many words that he wants to express, words he has written, rethought and elaborated through the millenniums, accepting his gloomy destiny  of unrequitedness and suddenly is not a a possibility anymore, a rampage taken place of his heart because his angel just confessed his feeling and he had been idiotic enough to think that it was not real.

As if Aziraphale would do something like that, yes, he had ignored his advances but also had given him hope with that devastating “you go too fast for me, Crowley”. That one still stank on his chest. But Aziraphale was implying an  _ Us _ and Hell, Heaven even Earth be damned if he was not gonna take it.

Crowley with one of the biggest smiles he had ever have leans in, his forehead resting between the blond curls.

_ Stay, stay, stay, please, Angel, please. Stay with me for eternity, I will not drown ducks if you don’t want to, I will even watch your stupid magic tricks because I’m a fool for you. _

And suddenly he can’t talk. He can’t just say yes. Because it’s too overwhelming and he can’t, he can’t just accept it so easily. And even if he had shouted it before in silence how he loves him, this time he can’t. Something shatters inside him as the angel quivers behind him.

_ Please Angel, please, understand. _

— This time it’s me who needs a little bit more of time.

The light is finally gone, not anymore miracled, dimness hiding them, the non-spoken words roaming through the room. When they notice the pass of the time the sprayer has long evaporated into thin air, the hand that was holding it now on Aziraphale’s shoulder, the other hand yet caressing the waistcoat so slightly, so gentle that it wires shivers through the angel's body, even if not skin is touched. 

A nose caresses his head from behind before all touch vanish.

— C’mon Angel, I will give you a lift home. - as he walks to take a jacket Aziraphale can only stare at him.

_ You are my most treasured home Crowley. _

Aziraphale smiles brightly and Crowley can’t help to grin. It’s complicated. The idea of being able to be it’s so intense that is almost dizzying him. But Aziraphale understands and they have always talked the real important conversation with silences.

— Will you come to the bookshop tomorrow? I found a Pinot Noir that would be perfect with some salmon. – an excuse.

— Of course I will. - a promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A candle rises some fears, a corny pick up line and it rains on London

Three weeks have passed since the confession. Crowley keeps going to the bookshop to nap at the sofa while Aziraphale reads at his armchair, glasses of wine between them. They keep going out to eat and Crowley’s plants are receiving names despite his bickering about how his hard work is going to waste. As if the moment hadn’t taken place. But others did.

One, three days ago.

Crowley was playing with his phone, scattered across the floor, his head against a bookcase, near to the desk Aziraphale was occupying reading, cocoa getting cold, and light entering softly through the dust in the windows when Aziraphale decided that he wanted one of those aromatic candles with a name that refers more to a feeling than to an actual smell. When the candle appeared between his hands he wiggled, delightful, and turned to show it to Crowley, who was yet concentrated on the screen.

But as soon the candle was lit, before it started releasing the aroma Crowley sprung up, stiffness all over his body, a grimace of pain on his face and rushed to blow it up, terror taking control of him.

Aziraphale frightens seeing how the little candle had panicked him.

Crowley’s pupils big,eyes searching for any other signal of danger, his chest shaking, hair sticking to his forehead as if he was just covered in sweat. Hands grabbing the end of the table, trembling, black nails gripping the wood. Mouth open, trying to breathe. Containing himself to not throw the object through a window.

 

Slowly catching breath again. Crowley unable to look at Aziraphale. Something almost animal on his eyes, lost on painful memories.

Aziraphale doesn’t fully understand but doesn’t speak. It was just a candle. A little fire. But there was something deep, root installed now on Crowley about fire. Aziraphale rest a hand at Crowley’s back, who jumps at the touch before slightly pressing himself against the fingers, searching the contact, manicured fingernails over his spine.

— Angel, you can’t have fire here. It’s dangerous. - the words are perfectly pronounced, almost mechanical. Hiding all the feelings. He closes his eyes.— You have this crowded with books, and papers. It burns too quickly - his voice starts to break and gulps twice before speaking again-. To easy to just...

Aziraphale starts to stroke his back, recomforting him, making sure that Crowley knows that he is here and alive and that he doesn’t have to thing about hellfire and I’m here Crowley, _I’m here. Please look at me._

Crowley’s hands start to relax, the touch easing him, taking his demons away enough for him to recompose, straighting up, the hand still on his back.

— Promise me that you will be safe.

Aziraphale feels his heart ache. He wants to hug him. He rubs again, up and down and puts on his most comforting smile. Crowley holds the candle next to his chest and when he opens up his eyes the candle is light. Aziraphale can feel the tremor on Crowley’s hand when he passes him the candle, his hands over his. The angel thumb almost too ear to touch the skin and retreating back. The opportunity now lost as Crowley hides his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans and goes back to the floor.

  


They are afraid of losing the other. But they both know that they can’t live like that. They have to trust, as difficult that appears, and just wish to see the other the next morning, everything being alright. So they choose to try to spend a little time afar. To fight the urge or running to see the other, to check that the other hadn’t burned down or being take  away. That they could cure the wounds, slowly, bit by bit.

Another week passed before they were ready to start to heal. As difficult it may feel. They both agree, but it’s truly one of theirs silent agreements, not brave enough to say it aloud.

_I’ll miss you._

_Just for a little bit. I’ll miss you too._

They don’t see each other for five days, days that Aziraphale occupies making inventory, trying to distract himself;  and Crowley rewatching The Good Place, lying at his sofa, struggling to not take the phone and make a call to just make sure that everything was alright.

They had lived decades, even centuries without seeing each other. Why was now so difficult? Why Aziraphale kept doing two cups of tea, distracted from his reading, being even less nice to customers(who he didn’t really want)?

Crowley unable to sleep, fire and smoke all over his mind again, jittering until he is able to keep watching the TV, grounding him.

They should be able to do this.

Five days was time enough to keep the fight against the trauma and not run into each other. Now, they needed to meet again, as soon as possible. It was inhumane to try to deal with it only at once and they had learned to love the human way a long time ago. They would heal, bit by bit. With time.

At the end of the marathon Crowley just happens to think about the new bakery that oppened near his flat, and  about how he should bring Aziraphale some pastries,for formality sake, just to make sure that he is’t going to be dragged there next time the angel visits him. He has been able to sleep more than two hours too.

When he arrives at the bookshop the angel isn’t home. Aziraphale had, just casually, found a book that maybe Crowley would like and he obviously had to give it to him, because literature is to be shared, so he closed the bookshop and took the bus to Crowley’s flat.

They almost don’t see each other that day.

Crowley waits two hours, Aziraphale one and a half.

 

They meet at the middle of the street, the Bentley going from 95 miles per hour to 0 in an instant. The car is intact and the rest of traffic keeps as if nothing supernatural had just happened, ignoring the scandalous sound, the tall red haired man jumping across the street, all the cars drifting away.

Aziraphale startles at the sidewalk when he sees Crowley, because of course he would do something so stupid like that, and purses his lips.

That’s not the reaction that Crowley is expecting as he walks toward him so he just shuts up and freeze on the spot, knowing better than to talk.

_Is there something wrong? Have they reappeared and gone for you and I  wasn’t there? Have you noticed that you don’t really want me around?_

— You could have discorporated yourself! Crowley, you can’t drive like that! You make me worry being an absolute danger at the street.- Crowley breathes again. He is only angry about how he drives. That’s not new. He can accept that.

If I’m a — danger at the streets, imagine between the sheets.- and he winks.

Aziraphale’s face goes from angry, to confused and back to angry.  Crowley just laughs lightly, he is safe with the Bentley. He takes better care of the Bentley( even with the _blessed_ Queen thing) than of himself. And Crowley likes an easy life. And corny jokes.

— Where are you going? I will give you a lift.

 _Anywhere you want. Now we finally can._ He doesn’t dare to speak his mind.

A bright smile on his face, he doesn’t want to hide the joy and relief  he feels. Aziraphale is here and he is fine, he is alive.

Aziraphale wants to shout at him, tell him what a disgrace he is and how he can act like that,  if he doesn’t understand the peril of being discorporated and going back down. How he may never come back and how that would utterly destroy him. But right now Crowley is next to him and as idiotic it may be Aziraphale beams.

How can the demon after almost giving him a heart attack (if he could have one) make all of his anger disappear with only a sly smile. Well, almost all of it.

— I will not ride with you your death machine, I want to keep being alive for a long time, thank you so much!

 

THe angles crosses his arms, the book  he planned to gift him hidden behind his armpit and pouts turning around his head. However, he doesn’t move away.

— Okey, Angel.- he hates  when Aziraphale pouts, they make him weak and able to do anything to have the angel smiling again.

Crowley knows that Aziraphale knows it and that sometimes he does it to get something from him, he loves it. But  this is not one of those times.

Crowley rolls down his glasses, enough for the angel to see his eyes,  grabs gently one of his shoulder and lowers himself to be face to face.

— Look, I’m sorry, I don’t want to be dead either. There is a lot of things. I was joking about the sheet thing. I just, _please_ , look at me, please.- He tries to hide the despair of his voice shaking him slightly by the shoulder, searching a reaction.

Aziraphale does, his face getting soft, his arms slowly going down. He knows that Crowley doesn’t like begging, or his eyes being watched and yet he is doing it for him. And the fact of feeling him so near, warm breaths hitting his skin helps to not be so mad at him. It would be not appropriate to not look at him. So he does. He observes the sharp cheekbones, the eyelashes, how his hair is a little bit longer now than at the end of the world that didn’t happen. He had never let himself recreate on Crowley’s beauty, everytime that the heavy warm weight settled down at his stomach he would look away. Not this time. He watches him speak.

— Good, listen, I don’t want you dead either. It’s just that I didn’t know where you were and I just- was he going to admit that he was coming back after waiting for him for two hours? No - I just saw you. Let’s talk about this not on the streets, yeah?- brows raising, a hand pointed to the car.

— Lead the way, my dear boy. But you are not yet forgiven.

Crowley opens for him the door and waits for him to be inside the car and closes it before taking the driver’s seat. This time the car doesn’t excess the 60 miles. Well, 64 miles per hour.  Freddie Mercury sings almost in a whisper, drizzle against the car windows. Aziraphale admits to have a book that may interest him. Crowley grins and accepts to read it only after a couple of whines. There is a traffic jam and they don’t miracle their way away. They sit at silence, enjoying each other company, the muffled sound of the city and the urge to talk about nothing important, to not remember the risks and danger, wanting to enjoy something so mundane and utterly horrible as a rush hour.


End file.
